


you'd better look alive

by lilacsoft



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/F, Spiritualism, jackie is the lesbian cecil beaton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23807233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsoft/pseuds/lilacsoft
Summary: “Tell me, Miss Cox, are you familiar with spiritual mediums?”-jan is the heiress to the madonna of victorian spiritualism. jackie is just looking for her big break as a photojournalist.
Relationships: Jan Sport/Jackie Cox
Comments: 51
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I promise I am still working on "and I wake up falling", but after I watched the latest Jan's Jukebox this idea WOULD NOT leave me alone. So here we are. Just two dykes being independent and enigmatic in the 1920s.

“Tell me, Miss Cox, are you familiar with spiritual mediums?”

Jackie blinks. This is not exactly what she had been expecting when she had been called into her editor’s office on a perfectly average Tuesday afternoon. She racks her brain for any kind of trick he could be playing - could it be a cultural difference? Jackie has lived in England long enough now to know when there’s something she’s missing, some part of a joke she’s half a beat behind on. But her boss is watching her intently, leaned forward in his chair with his fingers steepled. Waiting.

“I have heard of them, yes,” Jackie says cautiously, testing the waters. “I would hardly say I’m an expert, Mr. Charles, but if you are asking me if I have read about them before, then yes, I have.”

Mr. Charles hums, thumbing through the folder on his desk and extracting a single photograph. “Does this ring any bells?” He places it on the smooth wood and slides it across so Jackie can look at it properly, and her pulse starts to quicken.

“Yes,” she says, folding her hands in her lap in an effort to be respectable, instead of grabbing the photograph in both hands. “Yes, I am familiar.”

As a photojournalist she takes knowing her industry history incredibly seriously. Her teenage years were spent poring over periodicals, her Kodak 3A held tight to her chest at any given opportunity. Once she got to college she was able to refine her tastes, develop and understanding of what she did like, and what she didn’t like. What she wanted to capture with her camera, and what story she wanted to tell the world.

The photograph in front of her was a turning point. It was over a decade old by the time she stumbled across it, late at night in the library at Barnard, eyes burning with exhaustion. Because she was a woman she had been encouraged to pursue portraiture photography ever since she expressed an interest in the art, however this was far from anything she had seen before. A woman dressed in finery, long hair wound and pinned to cradle her head, was being led down the steps of some grand building, her hands cuffed behind her back. There were four policemen bracketing her, two on either side, and behind them, the throng of the crowd. The frame was too crowded, there wasn’t enough light - it was so far from a perfect photograph. But apart from the surge of crowd and force of policemen, the woman looks right into the camera, her head held high, eyes dark. She was hypnotised by the photograph when she first came across it, utterly spellbound by the woman who looked unnervingly out of the frame at her. Now, however, Jackie knows who she is.

“Alexis Mantione,” Jackie says quietly. It’s hard to pull her eyes away from the image, but she manages it. Mr. Charles lets out a low whistle.

“Precisely.” He watches her, assessing— something, she isn’t sure what. As the only woman in the newsroom who isn’t in a secretarial role, Jackie is used to being assessed in this way. She waits, meeting his gaze with cool interest. Something in her tells her that it will be worth it.

“You’re too young to have experienced first-hand the media storm that surrounded this woman,” Mr. Charles says slowly, “but Alexis Mantione was the finest medium to come out of the spiritualist free-for-all that ran wild through the late nineteenth century. Even people who thought it was all a hoax had their doubts about her. She was the real deal. And then it all got a bit, well…”

“Complicated,” supplies Jackie, and Mr. Charles lets out a low chuckle.

“Yes, that’s one word for it.” He reaches forward, and taps the edge of the photograph. “June 12th, 1906. Alexis Manitone is the guest of honour at the Luzon ball, and in the height of scandal, is removed in handcuffs for the murder of her father. The trial was a mess, and they discredited her abilities completely, of course.”

“They locked her up in an institution for the rest of her life,” Jackie finishes, pressing her sensibly-shoed feet firmly into the floorboards to stop her legs from jittering.

Mr. Charles raises an eyebrow. “That they did.” He thrums his fingers against is desk, considering something. Whatever it is, Jackie dares to believe it is big, and big for _her_. “Well, she’s long dead now, of course. But her only daughter is in London, now, did you know?”

_There it is_. “I’d heard something like that.” With the rise of the so-called Bright Young Things, every newspaper’s gossip and society columns were more in demand than ever. She hadn’t heard much, but her keen eyes had picked up on the Mantione family name when she had occasionally come across it.

“Mm. January Manitone. She’s quite the private sort. Shows up at the occasional Davenport party, but she has her own little group which seems rather tight-knit.” Mr. Charles pauses, reaching under his desk to procure a small glass and an ornate bottle of whiskey. Casually he pours a snifter and inspects it, turning the amber liquid around in the glass. The wait is agonising for Jackie. “Rumour has it, she’s inherited some of her mother’s _sensibilities_ , if you follow me.”

When Jackie was thirteen she had come home from school to find a dove had somehow gotten into her bedroom and had worked its way into a state of absolute panic. She was flinging herself around the tiny room, wings slapping against the cheap plaster. It had taken her and her mother an hour to get the poor bird contained and safely back outside. Sometimes when her heart is pounding and fingertips are itching for action, she thinks of that bird and thinks she understands a little how it felt. 

Mr. Charles takes a sip, and makes a satisfied noise, then puts his glass down. “I want you to cover this story, Miss Cox,” he says pointing at Jackie.

It’s what she hoped. She’s dreamed of this for years since she joined _The Chronicle_ , getting her first big solo story. But the story she is being assigned feels too good to be true. The daughter of Alexis Mantione… Jackie doesn’t believe in fate, but if she did, she thinks this would be it.

_Yes, god, yes,_ she wants to yell, but because her mother raised her properly, she raises her eyebrows in performative intrigue. “Me, sir?” Her editor sighs.

“You take a cracking photograph, and you’re clever with words. And we need a woman,” he finishes, holding his hands up as if Jackie’s finally caught him out. “January Mantione is either incredibly old-fashioned, or incredibly progressive, and only associates with other women. None of our regular reporters could get within a mile of her.”

She tries desperately to fight the blush that rises up her neck when she hears her editor say _progressive_ , understanding the inference all too well. Instead she tries to focus on what Mr. Charles is telling her. It’s not often that being a woman has granted her special opportunities in this field. Actually, it’s incredibly rare. She will gladly take this one.

“You’d like a full piece on this, then?” She pulls out her notebook and fountain pen. “Instalments, I take it?”

“Yes, let’s keep the readers buying our papers for more details,” Mr. Charles says, laughing, and takes another tiny sip of his whiskey. “I am trusting you to take your time with this though, Miss Cox. All reports suggest she is an incredibly private young woman. You will have to be persuasive, win her over.” He drains his glass, and sets it down. “It won’t be easy. But I would not have asked you if I did not think you were capable of it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jackie’s head is bursting with possibilities. She looks back down at the photograph, and feels those proud eyes burning into hers. “I won’t let you down.”

“No, I don’t believe you will,” Mr. Charles leans across and slides the photograph back into his folder. Jackie blinks. “Check back in with me in a week or so, let me know how you are getting on.” She’s dismissed. Jackie nods and stands, her chair scraping against the floorboards. When she reaches the office door, Mr. Charles calls her name.

“Miss Cox?” She turns, notebook tucked up against her navy blouse.

“Yes sir?” He gives her a funny sort of half smile.

“Best of luck to you.”

-

Her first step is raiding the _Chronicle_ archives. The archives are universally hated by the journalists who work for the paper, but Jackie secretly likes them. Compared to the cacophony of noise in the newsroom, the archive are deeply quiet, the silence pressing in around her as she slips her hands into the soft cotton gloves she uses to handle the fragile papers. Opening her notebook again, she carefully writes at the top of a new page:

_5_ _ th _ _March 1926._

_January Mantione._

And then she gets to work.

She doesn’t have much to go off. It takes her four full days to sift through anything she thinks could be semi-relevant, squinting in the dull lamplight until late into the evening. Mostly, she sets the context for January by refreshing her memory on her mother. _The Chronicle_ only goes back to 1895, but she still manages to get quite a lot of information. Alexis visited England three times in the late stage of her career, as far as she can tell, giving talks and hosting private readings. One of her controversies that set her aside from her contemporaries was her willingness to host readings for people outside of the social elite - proof it was a _calling_ rather than a money making enterprise, she is reported to have said, as she exited a workhouse in Bethnal Green in 1901. There is a grainy photograph of her next to the article, and Jackie strains but cannot make much out other than her black clothing and the wide line of her mouth. She is _fascinating_.

As for January, it is much more difficult to find anything at all on her. There’s a birth notice she almost misses - 11 June 1902 - which puts her at four years old almost exactly when her mother was arrested. Jackie’s heart clenches in sympathy. January must barely remember her mother.

In February of 1919 there is a wedding announcement between January and someone called Nathaniel Tompkinson - and in June that same year, the notice of his death from Spanish Flu. Then, December of 1921, she crops up in the London social papers. _Miss January Mantione has purchased number 42 Cannon Ln., Hampstead. She is currently settling matters in New York, and plans to settle in London permanently in the new year._ Jackie’s hands fumble with her pen as she copies down the address carefully in her notebook. An address, that’s something. She can absolutely work with an address.

There’s not much else, really. A couple of notices of her attending various social gatherings. None of the big balls, and there are no photos. Jackie takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes, groaning. When she opens her eyes, the address catches her eye again. She could always just write January a note, ask if she can visit her. “What have I got to lose,” she murmurs, and snaps her book shut, pushing herself to her feet. She was assigned this job because she was in a unique position to get close to her, after all.

Jackie is good at talking to people. She’s calm, and reasonable, and knows how much air to leave in a conversation for the other person to speak. Once people see that they generally _want_ to tell her things. So far, it has served her very well as a journalist. She hopes it will propel her through this story, too. But her whirring mind keeps getting stuck on Mr. Charles calling January “progressive” for surrounding herself with women. Jackie gets the nuance. Mr. Charles is walking a fine line with this story, if he’s sending Jackie into what he potentially thinks is some kind of lesbian witch cult. She dallies in the hallway before entering the newsroom, wondering if he is hoping she possesses some kind of secret lesbian knowledge that will grant her access to January’s inner sanctum. Jackie knows there have been whispers around the office about her own preferences, but she’s a damn good photographer, and pretty sharp with words too, so nobody has been any more openly hostile towards her than they would to any other female journalist. Mr. Charles is more hands on than most other editors Jackie has worked with too, so there is far less time for the newsroom to devolve into petty politics. They are there to make a good paper, and they do.

It’s late in the afternoon by the time she’s back at her desk, and she pens a letter quickly, keeping it sincere, interested, and brief. Dropping it into the postbox on her walk to the tube after work, she waits to hear the gentle tap of her envelope against countless others as it lands inside. It’s out of her hands, now, she tells herself as she starts edging her way into a packed Charing Cross station. All she can do is wait.

The response comes much sooner than planned. When she returns from her lunch the next day, shaking her dark hair out from the drizzle, there’s a letter waiting on her desk. The script is neater than her scrawl, a sort of swirled calligraphy, and the ink is deep violet. With trembling hands she turns the envelope over to where it is sealed at the fold with a translucent wax, the end of a lavender sprig caught in the seal. Instinctively she lifts it to her nose, and breathes in. It smells fresh.

She reaches for her letter opener and carefully, without dislodging the seal, slices into the expensive parchment of the envelope. It’s only a brief note inside, but it says enough.

_Dear Miss Cox,_

_I was most intrigued by your letter. Every now and then I have some reporter or other barking at my heels, but with you being both a woman, and a fellow American, I must insist on us meeting._

_Would you come for a drink on Saturday? Stop by anytime after 4pm. You already know my address. I really am very interested to meet you._

_Yours,_

_Jan_

Jackie is dumbfounded. She reads the letter again, and then again. There are too many questions rolling through her head. How does she know that Jackie is American? What was so intriguing about her letter? And she goes by _Jan_? This does not match up with the serious recluse Jackie had envisioned when researching her.

Usually when she is going into an interview, Jackie feels settled. The impossibility of knowing what is going to happen grounds her, because her gut instinct is usually right. But then, she’s never received a letter quite like this before.

“Well,” she says aloud, and sits down at her desk with a thud. She supposes she had better clean up her nice shoes, if she is going to Hampstead for drinks with _Jan_ Mantione.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What have you heard about us, Jackie?” Jan asks finally, and Jackie notices that she says us, not me. The collective nature of the question throws her a little. She has heard a lot about Jan, but not much about her company, and she tells her as much. “Oh, come now,” Jan says, shooting her a knowing smile, “your editor didn’t just send you here to speak just about little old me. Tell me, what have you heard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand throwing myself back into this. Sorry for the delay. Enjoy!

Jackie isn’t sure what she was expecting, but 42 Cannon Lane is nothing like she would have imagined. The red brick house is set far back from the road, a winding path of ancient pavers leading to the glossy black door. The garden is a little haphazard but obviously well tended to, pools of cornflowers and penstemons bordering the path and ground floor windows. The grass looks recently trampled, and a little ways back from the path there is a stone birdbath, moss creeping at its base. As Jackie creaks open the gate and steps onto the path, a starling lands in the basin and rests there, watching her. The air feels heavy, expectant, and Jackie swallows, her fingers fumbling with the latch as she makes sure to close the gate behind her. When she turns back, the starling is still there, gazing cooly at her.

“Hello,” Jackie says uncertainly, and then immediately feels foolish. What is she doing? It’s just a bird. She’s worked herself up reading too many late Victorian journals on the occult, and now she’s talking to birds. How embarrassing.

“Friend of yours?” comes an amused voice, and Jackie jumps. From the other side of the garden walks a woman, a broad smile on her face. Jackie doesn’t recognise her, she knows she isn’t January. She’s tiny, her thick blonde hair pinned in a low chignon and a soft houndstooth skirt falling to her ankles beneath a dusky pink housecoat. She must live here, Jackie thinks, taking note of the worn gardening gloves that dwarf her slim wrists, sleeves rolled up multiple times to cater for them. In one fist she’s clutching some kind of root vegetable, still caked in fresh dirt. She looks both glamorous and earthy at the same time.

“Not really. How embarrassing,” Jackie says, laughing a little to cover her discomfort. “I’m a guest of Miss Mantione, I hope I’m in the right place…?”

The woman is still smiling, her eyes scanning over Jackie with rapid interest. “You must be Jacqueline,” she says, “the journalist, am I right?”

Jackie nods. “Yes, that’s right. I’m a reporter for the _Chronicle_. _”_

“Hmm.” The woman assesses her a moment longer, then gives the vegetable in her hand an abrupt shake. Only a little of the dirt comes off. “Well, it’s lovely to finally meet you. I would shake your hand but I don’t think you would want these gloves on your pristine cuffs. I’m Brianna.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Jackie says, fiddling with the cuff of her shirt now Brianna has mentioned it. Brianna makes her nervous in a way Jackie can’t quite put her finger on. There’s a savvy boldness to her, but in a quiet, unassuming way, not at all like the brashness of fruit sellers at Borough Markets or the arrogance of socialites. When she looks at Jackie it feels like she is actually _seeing_ her. It’s odd, but it’s not altogether bad.

Brianna has turned slightly, thumbing away the dirt from the large bulbs she’s holding, which are looking more and more like beetroot with each passing moment. “You caught me getting a few bits together for dinner,” she says conversationally, and Jackie takes note of a smudge of dirt along the fine bone of her jaw. “One of the girls here is obsessed with beetroot at the present. Will you be staying for dinner?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Jackie has so many questions, it is taking all of her journalist self control to not pull out her notebook and start taking down details. “Are there many of you who live here?” she settles on, managing to sound far more casual than she feels, although she’s not sure she manages to con Brianna.

Brianna casts her a sidelong look, that same knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “There are a few of us. It’s refreshing to deal with a woman journalist, you know. And don’t be silly, Jan wouldn’t have invited you if she expected you to be an intrusion. She doesn’t invite just anyone to the house.” Apparently satisfied with the beets, she starts to cross the lawn to meet Jackie on the path, stepping high over plants in her sensible brown boots. She stops in front of Jackie, and though the top of her head only just clears Jackie’s shoulder, her force of presence feels like it stretches beyond the two of them. “You must be special,” Brianna tells her, and Jackie swallows.

Before she has the chance to cobble together a response, Brianna beckons her with her gloved hand and turns, heading down the bath to the front door. Jackie follows, watching as she scrapes her muddy boots carefully against the grate, one hand anchored against the front door, then slips her dainty feet free of them and opens the door. “Come on in,” she says merrily, slipping her feet into a pair of Chinese slippers which were sitting just inside the door. Jackie steps inside, her heart thumping in her chest.

The entry hall looks normal enough. There are rather a lot of shoes stacked by the front door, which she supposes makes sense if a number of women live here. To the left is a drawing room, ahead a dark wood stairwell and a corridor behind. There are double French doors to her right but they are closed, concertina blinds pulled down tight over the glass. Somewhere in the distance is a kettle whistling and the sound of a gramophone. Jackie glances up, and notices a small clump of tied sprigs hang above the doorway. She breathes in deep, and thinks she recognises the smell of rosemary.

“Thanks for the slippers, Mo,” Brianna yells, and Jackie jumps. She turns, smiling brightly, and motions to Jackie’s left. “You can go on through there, I’ll let Jan know you are expecting her. I have to put these down,” lifting the beets to punctuate her words.

“Of course. Thank you, Brianna,” Jackie says quickly, and as Brianna bustles down the corridor, Jackie does as she’s told. It’s an odd room with a number of beautiful chaises in rich purples and midnight blues, and several Turkish rugs laid like patchwork over the mahogany floor. Bookshelves line the walls, and an unfinished chess game is set up on an end table by the window. Tacked to the walls are a number of unframed watercolours and odd blue botanical prints. She moves closer, entranced by the curious blue, and wonders what sort of paint it is.

“Are you an artist, Miss Cox?” A voice comes from behind her, and for what feels like the hundredth time that afternoon, Jackie startles. Standing in the doorway is January Mantione. She has never seen a good photograph of her but is instantly recognisable from the similarities to her mother - the same straight nose, the same soft rounded cheeks. What surprises Jackie is how blonde she is, her long fair hair braided loosely over one shoulder and fastened with a strip of black ribbon. Despite her reclusive nature, January is still apparently fashion forward, her high waisted trousers in deep purple accenting her waist and long legs in a way that makes Jackie’s cheeks feel unusually warm. She’s smiling, her gaze strong and clear, and Jackie feels very plain in comparison.

“Not so much, but I do like art,” she says carefully, returning her smile. “Miss Mantione, I take it?” January laughs, shaking her head.

“Please, that makes me sound like I’m eighty six. You must call me Jan, I insist.”

Jackie is still apprehensive, but she is finding it so easy to be charmed by Jan that her smile is genuine. “Then you must call me Jackie.”

Jan laughs again, sharp and musical. “Jackie! How sweet. Please, sit,” and strides across the room to take a seat on a chaise. Jackie is struck by her manner of walking - not quite a lady from the upper echelons of society, but with more of an easy athleticism. The trousers help, too. She sits, pulling out her notebook and searching for her pen as means of distraction. Anything to stop considering the curve of Jan’s thighs.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take some notes?” she asks politely, and Jan shakes her head.

“Not at all. I wouldn’t have had a problem with inviting a journalist into my home if I had a problem with being observed,” she says slyly, and Jackie struggles to repress a blush. Luckily, Brianna enters the room with a tea tray, and sets it down on the table between them.

“I hope you like your tea black and honeyed,” Brianna directs towards Jackie, who nods even though she usually drinks her tea with milk and no sugar.

“Thank you, Brianna,” she says, who smiles and folds her arms across her chest.

“What fine service,” Jan says archly, grinning, and Brianna winks at her.

“Don’t get used to it,” she teases, and turns on her heel, leaving the room. “Have fun, you two,” she calls from down the hall, and Jan laughs again.

“She seems lovely,” Jackie says, although _lovely_ doesn’t seem to even come close to describing Brianna’s strange warmth. It seems like it was the right thing to say though, as Jan is nodding so aggressively as she pours their tea that she spills a little on the saucer.

“Oh, _damn_.” Jackie stifles a grin. Watching her cuss over spilt tea is oddly humanising. “She is though, isn’t she? Such a funny, wonderful girl.” _Maybe…?_ Jackie thinks, remembering their teasing familiarity, the rumours about the women who live at 42 Cannon Lane. Could Brianna and Jan be some kind of item? She feels a pang of disappointment and immediately chides herself for it. _Pull yourself together, Jackie_ , she thinks, and clears her throat, leaning forward to take a teacup.

“Are there many women who live here?”

Jan seems to consider a moment, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. “There are five of us at the moment. It’s a static population, though. Sometimes there are less, sometimes more. We have a few guests who stay with us for only parts of the year. You’ve met Brianna,” and Jackie nods along, “she’s a permanent fixture. So am I, obviously.”

“How did you two meet?” She can’t help herself.

“At boarding school in Switzerland, can you believe. Got into all sorts of trouble together. We lost touch afterwards - I was pulled out, sent back to school in New York, but we reconnected once I moved to London.” Jan is silent for a moment, watching Jackie as she takes a sip of tea. It’s brewed stronger than she usually would prefer to take it, and it’s a busy mouthful, the taste of honey and lemon heavy on her tongue, but she finds she actually likes it. “Do you like the tea?” Jan asks suddenly, and Jackie is caught off guard.

“Yes, I do. The honey is very nice,” she says tentatively, and Jan beams.

“Isn’t it! We have hives that the honey comes from. Not here, but I have another house out west that we sometimes go to when we need a bit more space for gatherings.”

“Gatherings?” Jackie delicately sets her tea down, and reaches for her notebook. “What sort of gatherings?” She’s busy with her pen, and when she looks back up, Jan is watching her, her eyes calculating but offset by a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She hasn’t said anything yet, and as agonising as it is, Jackie waits her out. Patience is one of the most important qualities of journalism, and Jackie prides herself on feigning patience even when her insides are tying themselves in knots.

“What have you heard about us, Jackie?” Jan asks finally, and Jackie notices that she says _us_ , not _me._ The collective nature of the question throws her a little. She has heard a lot about Jan, but not much about her company, and she tells her as much. “Oh, come now,” Jan says, shooting her a knowing smile, “your editor didn’t just send you here to speak just about little old _me_. Tell me, what have you heard?”

A slight thrill runs through her for reasons Jackie cannot identify. Jan is beautiful and refined and they’re both American but Jan still seems dizzyingly foreign, with her self-possession and cool elegance, the casual manner in which she folds her legs and the captivating swoop of her lower lip. “Obviously, there is the matter with your mother’s… gift,” she says, surprised by the frank tone of her voice. Jan raises an eyebrow, but waves her hand for Jackie to continue. “You are surely aware of the rumours that address her gift in conjunction with the collective of women assembled here.”

“I am aware,” Jan says simply. Her face unreadable, but she doesn’t seem offended, so Jackie ploughs on.

“That’s why I’m here. I have an interest in your mother’s work, and an interest in… fringe communities, I suppose.” Jan snorts into her tea. Jackie waits, but she doesn’t say anything else. “My editor is pushing for an alternate take on the life of a socialite. That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s really all you’ve heard about us?” Jan asks, her knowing gaze burning into Jackie, and she swallows. Of course she’s heard hushed whispers about “sapphic sisters”, but a small, vulnerable part of her is terrified what that will say about her own _proclivities_ if she discloses that. She’s not sure she is ready to disclose the most private part of herself to anyone, although quietly she thinks that if she was going to trust anyone with it, it would be this strange, bright woman she’s only just met.

“That’s all,” she says instead, busying herself with another sip of tea. When she dares to glance back at Jan, she knows she’s been caught in a lie. Fortunately Jan doesn’t say anything, just hums and sets her empty teacup down on the table.

“Well, it feels natural that I am interested in my cultural heritage. My mother died when I was very young.”

“I know,” Jackie murmurs, her brow creasing. Jan waves her hand.

“Ancient history,” she says in a manner which is determinedly breezy, and Jackie’s heart aches for her. “But what I mean is that the traditions we practice here help me to feel more connected to her.”

“What sort of traditions?” Jackie asks, her fountain pen hovering above the paper. Jan smiles indulgently, and starts to rattle off a list of practices, ranging from celebrations to home decorating to oddly enough, gardening.

“It’s not really what people like to focus on, but my mother was very interested in our connection to the earth,” Jan says, and it’s the first time Jackie sees her cheeks colour slightly. She’s self conscious, Jackie realises with a jolt, and it’s adorable. “I try to garden as much as I can, have as many vegetables and herbs on hand. After so many years in New York City, it’s soothing being surrounded by such greenery.”

“You have a beautiful garden,” Jackie says honestly, and Jan dips her head.

“Thank you. The country house is more unruly, but we should have it more under control for the summer. We host a party there each year.”

“What happens at your parties?”

“Well, why don’t you come along and find out?” Jackie starts, her pen freezing on the paper as she looks up. Jan is back to her composed self, grinning with raised eyebrows.

“Come along?” How was getting an invite so easy? Jackie has staked out locations for weeks to get a story, and she gets invited to tea by Jan and somehow an invite to a bizarre witch celebration just falls into her lap?

“We are hosting Ostara here in a fortnight, if you’re interested. You would be most welcome.” Jackie’s mouth is dry.

“I would love to come,” she says quickly, her pen working furiously against the paper once more. “Can you— it’s Ostara, is it?”

“O-S-T-A-R-A,” Jan spells out patiently, and Jackie lets out a low laugh, scratching the letters out carefully.

“Thanks, much appreciated. So, a celebration at this time of year, is it like… the Easter-type holiday?” Jan laughs, and Jackie flushes, biting at her lip.

“Oh, Jackie. Yes, something like that. Don’t worry, it’s all very normal. I promise.” She winks, and Jackie’s stomach swoops. _Fuck_.

There’s quick footsteps down the corridor, and Brianna swings around the corner, lingering in the doorway. “Ladies, it’s time for dinner.”

Jan claps her hands together, and turns back to Jackie. “Please, won’t you stay? Nights when Brianna cooks are the best.”

“I would love to,” Jackie says honestly. She can’t quite bear to peel herself away from this curious house and the women who live in it just yet. Jan smiles ear to ear, jumping to her feet, and Jackie follows her. She assumed they would be eating in a formal dining room, but Jan leads her down the corridor and through the kitchen to a conservatory right at the back of the house, overlooking the sprawling back garden. There’s a table with mismatched chairs, the last of the day’s light casting long shadows across the table as Brianna lights candles and another woman sets the plates down, both of them ribbing each other in a good-natured manner.

“Jackie, this is Monet. Monet, Jackie.” Jan does quick introductions, heading for a chair and tapping the one next to her to indicate Jackie should sit there. Monet is still laughing at something Brianna was saying, and leans across the table to take Jackie’s hand, shaking it once. Her hair is cropped close to her hair in a trendy, boyish style that Jackie wishes she was brave enough to attempt, and she too is wearing trousers in a rich burgundy.

“Lovely to meet you. Wine?”

“Please,” Jackie says quickly, and Monet laughs, reaching for a bottle.

“Good answer, Jackie.”

“Any relation to the artist?” Jackie asks, unable to resist, and the corner of Monet’s lip curls into a wry smile.

“He wishes,” she says, low and drawn out, and Brianna lets out a bark of laughter.

“Is it just us, then?” Jan asks, unrolling her napkin and laying it across her lap, and Jackie watches as Monet is suddenly very interested in the wine bottle. She glances over at Brianna, who is still smiling but looking quite intently at Jan.

“The others are in Kennington tonight, remember?” Realisation dawns on Jan’s face, and nods, ducking her head. The journalist part of Jackie’s brain is aching to know what they mean, but the soft, sentimental part of her aches to take Jan’s hand and hold it until she smiles again.

But that would be very embarrassing, so instead she offers a deflection. “Kennington is near my neck of the woods.”

“Oh? Jan, you’ve invited a _Southerner_ to dine at our table? Well, I never.” Monet grins, handing her a glass of red wine.

Jan smiles quickly, obviously grateful. “Where do you live? I realise I never even asked.”

“Clapham, by the north side of the Common.”

Brianna lets out a low whistle. “Cor, that’s practically cross-country. What an honour you’ve come all this way to dine with us.”

“It’s not that far,” Jackie protests, but she’s laughing as she takes her first sip of wine. It’s richer than what she’s used to - she hardly ever drinks red - but it’s good.

Dinner is a variety of roast vegetables - including the famous beetroot - with a spiced gravy and hunks of sourdough to mop it up. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any meat to go with your dinner,” Jan explains as they start to eat, “we don’t eat meat. And we only eat eggs at certain times of the year.”

“ _Ostara_ ,” crows Monet, wriggling in her chair as she spears a piece of carrot with her fork. “It can’t come soon enough, honestly.”

Jackie wishes she hadn’t left her notebook in the other room. “Why’s that?” she asks, and Jan smiles, taking a sip of wine.

“Tradition,” she says, shrugging, and Jackie feels foolish asking any more.

“So, have you gotten much information out of January here?” Monet’s tone is teasing, her eyes darting between Jan and Jackie, who isn’t sure how to answer the question. She chews slowly, considering.

“Well, she got an invite to Ostara out of me,” Jan says, and when Jackie looks over at her, she swears Jan’s cheeks have reddened just a little. _Probably the wine_ , she tells herself, but her traitorous heart picks up pace in her chest.

Monet looks blown away by the news. “ _Really_!” she exclaims, and Brianna laughs, reaching across to grab the carafe of drinking water.

“Someone’s keen,” she says slyly, and now Jackie’s blushing too. “Your first Ostara, how exciting. What must you think of us, I wonder?” Jackie casts a sideways look at Jan, who is still a little pink, but smiling encouragingly at her.

“I think… well, I think this place is wonderful,” Jackie says, unable to feign detachment. “I have so many questions, but I think this house is like nowhere I’ve been before, the dynamic of its tenants are _fascinating_ \- a real credit to non-traditional living. And you’ve all been so kind to me. I would very much like to come back.”

“Oh, Jackie.” Jan reaches over and presses her hand to Jackie’s just for a moment, and she swears her heart stops. When she looks up, Monet is watching her thoughtfully.

“That’s all very well, but if your article contains something along the lines of, _the real magic was the power of friendship_ , I will personally see that you never work again,” Brianna says dryly, and they all laugh.

After dinner, Jackie heads back into the drawing room to collect her belongings. She knows it’s late and she ought to head off, but every part of her longs to stay. From where she stands, notebook in hand, she can hear Monet and Jan laughing while they do the dishes as Brianna’s sharp, joyous voice rings out over the top. Jackie’s read about women’s communes of course, wondered about separatism and the functionality of it. She isn’t quite sure of what this is just yet, something of a vague religious overtone with their rosemary in doorways and eggs once a year and _traditions_ , but every atom of her is begging to find out. Humming quietly to herself, she loiters by the artwork again, running the tip of her finger along the edge of one of the striking blue paintings.

“Have you ever seen one of those before?” Jan asks from behind her, and when Jackie turns she’s wiping her soapy hands on her trousers. Wisps of hair frame her face from where they’ve come loose out of her braid, and she’s backlit by the soft light of the hallway. Jackie has had two glasses of wine and so she can freely admit to herself that Jan is the most ethereally beautiful woman she has ever met.

“No,” Jackie admits, and Jan draws closer until she’s standing right next to her, their clothes just brushing at the hips.

“It’s a cyanotype,” Jan explains quietly, “a very early example of photography. The process is a little convoluted but it’s easy enough. Our resident artist Sasha taught us how to make them. I could show you, if you like,” she finishes, a little shy, and Jackie stares at the leaves on the paper, unable to look at Jan lest she disturb the gentle intimacy of this moment.

“I would love that,” she whispers, “it’s beautiful.” Jan’s fingertips brush against hers. It feels right.

The moment is disturbed by Brianna clanking past to put the milk bottles out by the door, and Jackie takes a step back, self-consciously checking her wristwatch. “I should really get going if I want to get the tube home,” she says, and Jan smiles, nodding.

“Of course, I’ll walk you out.” She calls through her goodbyes to Brianna and Monet, and when they’re out in the garden, she steals a glance at the birdbath. The starling is long gone.

They’re almost at the gate when Jan stops, grabbing hold of Jackie’s elbow. “Wait here, I’ll be back in just a moment,” she says, and hurries back inside. Jackie realises she’s barefoot, and thinks that her feet must be freezing against the cold stone of the path. It’s a clear night with no cloud cover, and Jackie pulls her coat tighter around her, wishing she’d thought to bring a scarf. Then again, she hadn’t anticipated being here so late.

Jan reappears, a small scroll in her hand. It’s tied with a black strip of velvet, and Jackie realises it was the one that was binding her braid. Her hair is now loose and flowing around her shoulders, and stood there in the garden with the moonlight hitting her hair just so, Jackie thinks she looks straight out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

“This is for you,” Jan says, and presses it into her hands. “Open it once you’re home.” She brushes a kiss against her cheek, murmurs, “see you on Ostara,” and darts back inside. The front door clicks shut behind her.

Jackie thinks of nothing else on her way home except Jan’s lips against her skin. The scroll burns a hole in her pocket and she keeps one hand pressed against it, thumbing at the thick paper with nervous fingers. By the time she reaches her flat her hands are trembling. Her cat Mabel winds her way around her legs, yowling insistently for her dinner, but she ignores her, dropping her bag and coat in the cramped entryway and with shaking hands, slides the ribbon off and unrolls the paper. It’s a cyanotype, brilliantly blue, and after a moment Jackie recognises the plant as a series of lavender sprigs. She closes her eyes, and leans back against the door, the cyanotype held to her chest. Ostara cannot come fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. Are they witches? Are they lesbians?? Is Mabel the Cat going to feature in every Jackie story I write??? (probably) Let me know what you think!! and as always come find me on tumblr @ lilacsoft.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Jackie says hoarsely, shifting in her seat. Jan’s eyes flicker briefly down, tracking the moment with her refined, searching gaze. Jackie feels like she’s being flayed alive. “Something can be both beautiful, and sinister. Or not even sinister, or dangerous, just,” she swallows around her next word, “misunderstood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Does anyone still care about this? Let's find out!

As it turns out, Jackie visits 42 Cannon Lane a number of times before Ostara. When she arrives at the office on Monday morning after two sleepless nights spent tossing and turning and staring at the lavender cyanotype she has pinned on her bedroom wall, she finds a letter from Jan already waiting for her on her desk.

_Jackie—_

_We are due some sun on Wednesday. Come for tea at 2?_

_Yours, J._

Jackie reads the letter three times over, held between her trembling fingertips, and carefully slips it into the inner pocket of her coat. She has the bones of a column already sketched out, surface level mediations on the interior of 42 Cannon Lane, passing remarks on its electric yet enigmatic residents, though she has no photographs to accompany it.

So on Wednesday, she leaves the drafted article on her editor’s desk, and once again takes the Northern Line to Hampstead, this time with her camera bag firmly in hand. Jan is in the garden when she arrives, sun-dappled and smiling, and greets her with a press of her soft cheek to Jackie’s flushed one. “I’m so glad you came,” she says, as if there was ever a chance she wouldn’t. _I don’t know if I could say no to you if I tried_ , Jackie thinks, her hand clenching tightly around the worn strap of her camera bag. 

“Would you mind if I take some photographs?” she asks, clinging to the shreds of her professionalism as a crutch, and Jan laughs.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Jan is a natural in front of the camera, ignoring Jackie completely as she calmly fixes them a drink in the kitchen. Jackie carefully lines her subject up with the strips of light filtering in through the windows, the shoulder of her burgundy housecoat slipping elegantly down to be cradled by the notch of her elbow as the shutter clicks. It’s a bright afternoon, particles of dust cast into the sunlight that wreaths Jan like an angel, the golden sheen of her hair distractingly illuminated. Usually her work is calming, but today Jackie’s palms are sweaty, the rush of blood deafening in her ears over the sound of Jan gently stirring a spoon against crystal glasses. “Shall we take these into the garden?” Jan asks after a moment, glancing over at Jackie with a soft, knowing smile. Jackie feels like she’s been pinned, caught out.

“Sounds lovely,” she says, and follows the other woman down the back steps and out to the garden. The back garden is soaked in golden afternoon sun, and Jan wordlessly has Jackie hold onto the tea-tray while she shirks her housecoat, leaving it draped on a hook by the door. Underneath, her cream linen shift bares the peachy skin of her shoulders, and the long, elegant line of her arms.

“Thank you,” Jan murmurs, letting out a breathy laugh, “God, it’s hot,” and she takes the tray back from Jackie, who is helpless to do anything but be led deeper into the garden. It is in a similar state of organised chaos as the garden at the front of the house, a winding path of flowers and vegetable beds and the occasional piece of furniture or statue. She lingers behind a little, pausing to take a photograph of Jan picking through the grass, unbothered as her skirt catches momentarily on some kind of crawling vine. Jackie fiddles with her lens, using the end of her sleeve to rub some dust from it, and when she looks back up Jan has come to a halt in front of a wrought iron set of chairs positioned around a table in the shade of a low hanging tree.

“Stop working a moment and come and sit with me,” Jan bids her, patting the seat opposite from her with a smile. Jackie places the camera down carefully on the table before she accepts a tall glass, ice rattling against the crystal. It tastes fresh, like lemon and roses, and in the heat Jackie downs half of her glass in one sip.

“Your garden is beautiful,” Jackie says, rolling her glass between both hands. The crystal is etched with intricate designs, swirling botanicals which seems fitting for the drink it holds. “How much of it was here when you moved in?” The high points of Jan’s cheeks are pink in the heat, and she’s slouched back in her chair as she holds the icy glass to her forehead. When Jackie mentions the garden her eyes are sharp and alert once more, her shoulders straightening.

“Thank you,” she beams, lowering her glass to set on top of the table. Drops of condensation from the glass linger against her forehead, and Jackie watches, hypnotised, as one of them slides from temple to jawbone, her mouth dry and chest aching. “Most of it is us, the women who stay here, as a collaborative effort. We are lucky to have a lot of willing hands. I feel very fortunate, though, the house provided some beautiful bones for us to work with. This tree was one of the things that made me fall in love with the place when I first visited, actually.” Jan reaches out and lays her hand against the trunk of the tree, her blunt nails scraping gently along the bark.

“It’s very striking,” Jackie comments, her hands itching for her camera again. Once she starts a session, she finds it incredibly difficult to take a break from it. It’s even harder when her subject is Jan, who exudes elegance and mystery and _beauty_ with every breath.

“You think so?” Jan asks, her hand falling from the tree as a funny sort of smile twists at her mouth, and Jackie feels like she is being assessed in some way. Her heartbeat picks up again, pulse thrumming at the folds of her wrists. “Actually, willow trees are thought by some to be quite sinister. That they might suddenly uproot and cast themselves free in pursuit of unsuspecting travellers. Folk tales, of course, but there’s often a grain of truth in folklore. You can understand why some might find them… unnerving.”

It’s still bright, the summer air warm and thick between them, but Jackie has never seen Jan’s eyes so dark. She feels utterly pinned by them, her breath caught tight in her chest like a bird in a vice. The rosewater taste lingering at the back of her throat feels suddenly syrupy, and she swallows dryly to no avail. The dull ache in her chest has sharpened, spiking a wave of cloying heat that prickles at the nape of her neck and between her legs. Blindly, unable to pull her gaze from Jan’s, she reaches for her camera, focuses the lens, and unthinkingly snaps this moment, unable to pull herself from it until she knows she has it on record. Something forbidden is gnawing at her stomach, and Jackie has never felt like this in her life.

“I think the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Jackie says hoarsely, shifting in her seat. Jan’s eyes flicker briefly down, tracking the moment with her refined, searching gaze. Jackie feels like she’s being flayed alive. “Something can be both beautiful, and sinister. Or not even sinister, or dangerous, just,” she swallows around her next word, “misunderstood.”

Jan doesn’t move for a moment, her eyes boring into Jackie’s. The summer air between them is suspended, immobile. Jackie forgets how to breathe. Then, somewhere overhead, a starling calls and the moment is broken with Jan’s easy smile.

“You say the funniest little things, Jackie,” she says indulgently, leaning back as she crosses one leg over the other, and Jackie’s snapping another shot before she can second guess herself.

-

Her first article on January Mantione and the women of 42 Cannon Lane goes to print that Friday. It’s no more than a society puff piece, just a column and a half with a snap of Jan in her garden. While ordinarily Jackie would be frustrated, the work a far cry from the more interesting investigative or creative pursuits her heart aches for, she couldn’t care less. There was something in her that desperately wanted to keep the information she was collecting on Jan to herself, like it was something private and intimate between the two of them. Printing any of what she observed inside the four walls of Cannon Lane felt keenly like some kind of betrayal.

To be honest, Jackie would have struggled to find the time to agonise over her work. Her calendar rapidly became full with invites from Jan. These often took the form of casual get-togethers - dinner parties, low-key soirées - at the house, and Jackie became familiar with the other women who orbited Cannon Lane. Brianna and Monet seemed to be relatively permanent fixtures, and though she felt more held at arms length with the two of them than she did with Jan, they still answered all of her questions with a warm, fond sort of tolerance. Often they were joined by a pair of Russian sisters, Katya and Sasha. Katya was a hurricane of noise and energy, peals of laughter and winding stories spilling from her red mouth faster than Jackie could keep up with. Sasha was more considered, her deep, accented voice melodic as she leaned in to speak with Jackie, close enough that she could see the fine layer of blonde stubble etched across her scalp. The women she met at Cannon Lane were always unconventional in some way or another, but the bold liberation of Sasha’s shaved head left Jackie momentarily speechless the first time she saw it, conjuring images in her mind of the fearless French female surrealists she’d only seen in photographs. She understood that Katya and Sasha had been in London a year or so, their parents both politically engaged left-wing academics who Jackie gathered spent a lot of time on the road.

“It must be nice, then, to have each other,” Jackie prompts them quietly, during an afternoon in the conservatory where they had been revarnishing a collection of second-hand picture frames. Katya laughs easily, reaching a hand adorned in golden rings across to fondly rub the base of Sasha’s skull, a worn gesture which has clearly been repeated a thousand times between the two of them.

“We are lucky,” Sasha says, a warm smile softening the lines of her face, “lucky to have one another, but also that the two of us have found this place here.” Jackie nods, her paintbrush stilled halfway to the tin of varnish, and glances across the room. Jan sits, a frame in her lap, watching Jackie with a thoughtful expression. When she’s caught in the act, she is quick to smile, falling effortlessly into a joke directed towards Katya who howls with laughter, and the conversation resumes. But that expression haunts Jackie when she tries to sleep at night, sheets tangled between her legs as she stares at the ceiling.

It’s Katya who first shows Jackie the studios on the first floor. Though Jackie has spent a considerable time at the house, it’s always in the garden or in one of the ground floor rooms, the conservatory or parlour or even in the kitchen, helping Brianna tie herbs for drying. It’s hard not to notice the art strewn around the house - rolled canvases leaning against doorframes, large abstract pieces hanging wherever they could fit. Since the cyanotype Jackie had thought that Jan must be more artistic than she let on, but had yet to broach the subject with her.

One particularly hot afternoon in the sitting room, Jackie and Katya are caught in quiet conversation while Jan naps, stretched out like a cat across the length of a divan, her face relaxed and angelic in sleep. “You haven’t seen the studios?” Katya says in a stage whisper, her eyes darting between Jan and Jackie, like she’s about to let Jackie in on a secret. “You must!”

Jackie bites her lip. “I don’t want to cross any boundaries.”

Katya’s wide mouth creases into a silent laugh. “Bullshit. You’re a journalist, that’s what you do. But I like you, and Jan likes you, and you’re practically one of us now. So come on.” With a litheness that Jackie could only dream of inhabiting, Katya silently leaps from her armchair and springs out of the room. Jackie casts a final guilty look in Jan’s direction, before curiosity wins over and she tiptoes after Katya.

The staircase keeps winding to the upper floors, but they stop at the first, Katya beckoning her down the corridor. “Here, if you’re nervous about getting in trouble, I’ll just show you one,” she jokes, knocking her shoulder companionably against Jackie’s as she pushes on the door at the very end of the corridor. It opens with a creak, and Jackie flinches. “No ghosties, I promise,” Katya says with a wink, and holds the door open. “After you.”

Jackie has been in plenty of art studios before, but none like this. It’s at the back of the house facing the garden, the floor to ceiling windows spilling so much natural light into the room it feels like the ceiling is barely there. Stacked in one corner are huge canvases, eight feet wide, and on the floor is a patchwork of three different pieces stretched out like rugs in various states of completion. They are huge, the one in the middle must be almost ten feet across, and at first glance are indecipherable. Spirals and shells and swathes of purple and red and gold. In one, a swan bursts from the corner, abstracted into nothingness as it makes its way across the canvas. It’s dizzying to look at.

“Well?” Katya asks, and when Jackie looks at her, she’s beaming.

“Jan did these?” Jackie whispers, and Katya shrugs.

“Jan is sort of… the artistic director? It’s collaborative at heart, but Jan takes the lead.” Katya rocks back and forth on her feet. “You like?”

“They’re beautiful,” she says, her voice hushed. “Thank you for showing me.”

When they creep downstairs, Jan is awake. “I was beginning to think you’d run out on me,” she says, smiling, and they all laugh. Jackie pretends she doesn’t see the look Jan exchanges with Katya, when they think Jackie is occupied by making tea for them. She doesn’t understand it, anyway. For all her time spent at 42 Cannon Lane, there’s still a lot she doesn’t understand. But when she closes her eyes to sleep that night, the endless loops of Jan’s abstract works are a tattoo on the inside of her eyelids.

-

The Friday before Ostara, Jackie takes a break from haunting the rooms of Cannon Lane to go for drinks with her old mentor. At six foot three Shea cuts an impressive figure, immaculately dressed in emerald green velvet and perfectly at home in the fashionable side streets of Fitzrovia. She is already stood at the bar when Jackie steps into the Berner’s Hotel, and she holds up two martinis in greeting from across the dining room. “Jacqueline, lovely to see you,” she says, kissing both cheeks, her voice at once smooth and gravelly, deep enough to strike a chord somewhere inside Jackie even after all these years. When Jackie had first met Shea, fresh out of college and dazzled by Shea’s effortless glamour and sheer competency, she had fallen terribly in love with the older woman. Shea had only just started _Coulée_ magazine shortly before their initial meeting, something that every financial backer had then laughed at, and in the following years had turned it into a success that had offices in New York, London, and Paris. Jackie burned with pride at her friend’s simultaneous creative drive and business savviness which had seen the magazine now rival _Vogue_ in fashion and lifestyle journalism. The years since had mellowed her crush, blunting the edges to a distinct fondness rather than anything more passionate.

Shea had already staked out a table for them, and once they were both seated, Jackie lifts her martini in cheers. “To you, Shea, and the dizzying heights of _Coulée_.”

Shea laughs, rolling her eyes, but mimicks Jackie’s gesture. “More like, to you and your witchy women of Hampstead,” she teases, and Jackie flushes pink, taking a gulp of her martini.

It takes until their third drink for Shea to make a grabby hand across the table. “Come on then, darling, stop holding out on me. Show me what you’ve been working on.” Though most of her work has been in journalism, Shea’s background at a small, progressive fine art school in Chicago has meant she has always been very interested in Jackie’s photographic work.

“It’s really just what I’ve been shooting for work,” Jackie says apologetically, handing over a small leather folder. “I haven’t had the time to do anything more… creative.” Not that she wanted to, with a subject as beautiful and enigmatic as January Mantione. Shea is silent as she flips carefully through the prints, her face unreadable in her intense focus, and Jackie takes a gulp of her gimlet to calm the nerves that start to edge at the pit of her stomach. She hasn’t included every photograph, only a dozen or so of her favourites, and they aren’t _all_ of Jan - there’s a lovely one of Brianna and Katya, laughing as they pick blackberries barefoot in the garden. But most of them feature Jan. Jackie feels like she’s baring her heart and soul across the table in the middle of a Fitzrovia bar, and waiting for Shea to tell her if it’s any good.

“Oh, Jack,” Shea murmurs after a moment, and presses a hand momentarily to her mouth. “Oh, Jack, you have outdone yourself.”

Jackie’s heart soars. “You think so?” she asks tentatively, and Shea barks out a laugh.

“Oh, you silly girl, these are _beautiful_. Really, that editor of yours doesn’t deserve you. Now,” and Shea drops a photograph face up on the table between them, facing upwards. Jackie is met with the sight of Jan in her garden, that afternoon under the willow tree, and residual heat burns through her. “Are we going to talk about _her_?”

Jackie tries to speak, but her mouth is dry. “That’s—” she licks her lips, “that’s January Mantione.”

“I’m aware, darling,” Shea says drily, “you seem to be quite taken by her.”

“Shea,” Jackie protests weakly, though she knows it’s no use. Shea always has her figured out. “She’s the focal point of the articles I’m running now.”

Shea waves her hand. “I read your first one. They’re limiting what you can do. The _Chronicle_ is a piece of shit, they have no idea what they’ve got with you. They patronise you. Think they’re bold enough to run a story like this but haven’t actually got the guts to follow through. This,” she taps insistently at the photo in front of her. Jackie glances down and is transfixed again, Jan’s dark eyes boring into her soul. “This is _art_. You have a _gift_ , Jackie. Don’t throw it away on some newspaper who won’t do you justice.”

Jackie sits back, downing the rest of her gimlet and dragging a hand through her hair. “I can’t just walk out, Shea, they’ve given me a shot,” she says hotly. The _Chronicle_ might be a misogynistic piece of shit ninety nine percent of the time, but it’s a foot in the door for her. It’s not so easy to be an American woman in London journalism when you’re not filthy rich. “What am I supposed to do? Yes, it’s not what I want to do forever, but I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere here. They’re letting me suss this out.”

Shea mimics Jackie’s position, leaning back in her chair, and reaches into her purse for an ornate cigarette case. “Well, baby steps, sweetheart,” she drawls, and offers the case to Jackie. She takes one, and leans in while Shea lights it for her, before lighting her own. “Let’s first figure out what _this_ is. And don’t play dumb with me, we are both intelligent women.” Shea taps the photograph again, and Jackie sighs.

“She’s… like nobody I’ve ever met before,” Jackie says in a low voice, her fingers twitching around the gold filter of her cigarette as she takes a nervous drag.

“Is she what people say? She and her little gang, the ringleader of some kind of witch cult started by her mother?”

“No! No, I don’t think so. They’re certainly… alternative, but I mean. Nothing _magical_ , that’s just gossip.”

Shea laughs, a pleased, rasping sound that cuts through the hum of chatter around them. “So not quite the twentieth century Helena Blavatsky.”

“Not quite, no.” Jackie is starting to relax again, the last gimlet dampening her sense of propriety as she grins across the table at her friend. “Less international societies and controversy, more gardening and low-key parties.”

“So you’re saying she’s more Natalie Barney than Blavatsky?” Shea asks, a wicked slant to her smile, and Jackie flushes beet red. “Oh, do come on Jacqueline. We are both grown women, we know what is said about Jan and her female companions. You know full well I’ve dabbled in my time, and, well…” Shea trails off, casting an assessing eye over her friend. Jackie wants to sink into the floor. “You know I would never… judge you, for anything of the sort, don’t you darling? In fact, I’d be delighted. Men are atrocious. You would be making a very wise choice indeed.”

“Shea,” Jackie protests weakly, her mouth working uselessly. She’s so tired of fighting how she feels about women, tired of pretending it’s something that will just… evaporate, go away, leave her to finally, _finally_ sleep peacefully through the night. It’s never-ending. She wants Jan, she _aches_. She takes an unsteady drag of her cigarette, coughing on the exhale, and blinks through watering eyes at Shea’s kind face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” her friend murmurs, and leans across to pat her hand. “It’s alright. Really, I’m not just saying that. And while I’m being honest, this is your best work. You’re onto a good thing here, with your photographs but also with Miss Mantione. You seem lighter, not as troubled. Lean into that. It’s good for your work and good for your soul.” She squeezes Jackie’s hand, and Jackie holds on tight, not letting go until her cigarette burns all the way down to the filter. When she pulls away to drop it into the ashtray, Shea wordlessly offers her a new one.

“Thank you,” Jackie mumbles, clearing her throat, and she’s still embarrassed but she feels _lighter,_ somehow. Shea is calling to the waiter with an elegant wave of her hand. Once he’s brought them two more gimlets, Shea is raises an eyebrow at Jackie.

“Now, back to business,” she says, and Jackie snorts. “I want you for _Coulée_.”

Jackie stares at her, jaw dropped. “You… what?”

“Close your mouth, darling, we aren’t a goldfish,” Shea teases, laughing, and takes a sip of her drink. Jackie thinks it highly offensive that Shea is so calm and collected, when Jackie’s brain is nothing but white noise.

“Shea, what the fuck?” Jackie manages. “I’m can’t— I’m not _good_ enough for _Coulée_!”

“Funny you should say that, actually,” Shea says archly, “because, you see, it’s my magazine, and I say you are good enough. More than good enough. I’ve been thinking about getting you onboard for a while, but you’ve given me all the evidence I needed tonight. I need a new photojournalist, and I want you, Jack.”

“ _Coulée_ is… chic, Shea. Trendy. Current. Look at me,” and Jackie motions to her plain blouse, her utilitarian hair, her lack of accessories. “I’m none of those things.”

“Come on, Jack, I’m not hiring you for your taste in shirts,” Shea scoffs, and taps her finger on the photograph again. “I’m hiring you for _this_. Because your work is current, and chic, and on trend, and whatever the fuck else you want to call it. It’s _beautiful_ , Jackie, and you deserve to work for a place that lets you spread your wings. And frankly, this is the kind of high quality shit I want to print.”

Jackie is speechless. Her gimlet is still sat half drunk in front of her, and with an unsteady hand she grabs it and takes a sip, then another one. “I don’t know what to say,” she says, swallowing around the bitter taste of lime and gin. “It feels… wrong to just walk out on the _Chronicle_ , when they’ve taken a chance on me with this story.”

“Think about it, then,” Shea says, “but know this, Jacqueline: they aren’t telling the story the way it ought to be told. The way you _could_ tell it.” She drums her fingertips on the photograph, and Jackie stares down, remembering the sultry summer air closing in thick around her skin, the shape of Jan’s lips as she said _sinister_. “The story deserves more, and so do you. _Coulée_ can tick both of those boxes.”

When they leave, Jackie packs the photographs carefully into her portfolio with slow, drunk hands. “Have you got much on this weekend, then?” Shea asks her as they step out onto the pavement, glistening wet with mid-March rain.

“Ostara,” Jackie says without thinking, and a giggle bursts from within her. “I don’t even— I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.”

Shea laughs, shaking her head. “Sounds pretty fucking witchy to me, darling. Get some good shots, okay?” When Shea pulls her in close to kiss her cheek, the drizzle misting in the air around them, Jackie lets out a small sigh.

“I feel very strongly towards her,” she whispers, and Shea holds on tighter, just for a moment.

“I know,” she breathes, kissing Jackie’s temple with a softness she sometimes forgets Shea is capable of. “I know. It’s okay.”

_It’s okay_ , Jackie tells herself again, digging her hands deep into her coat pockets as she starts the trundle towards the tube station. And for the first time in a long time, she feels like maybe it will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow so... I didn't write anything for 8 months, and then sat down today and wrote 4k. and we still didn't even get to Ostara! Next time, and I promise it won't be another 8 fucking months before an update. If you read this, thank you so much... and pleeease let me know if anybody is actually still into it! 
> 
> also, what do we think... is Jan a witch? or is she just a lesbian? or is she BOTH?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan leans close enough that Jackie can feel the soft putter of her breath against her jaw. Let me die, she thinks, closing her eyes and feeling the garden slip away. Her entire world narrows to the heated tangle of Jan’s fingers and the perfume of bluebells as Jan’s lips draw close enough to kiss.

The night before Ostara, Jackie barely sleeps. She tosses and turns, her sluggish brain filled with Shea’s carefully crafted offer of employment and punctuated by the memory of Jan’s gaze burning into hers. When dawn comes she lies in bed for hours, her legs tangled in the bedsheets, letting Mabel snooze against the hunched line of her body as she spreads her photographs around her and pours over them. The stark line of daylight from a chink in her curtains travels slowly across her bed, sharpening the contrast between the crisp white of her sheets and the downy olive of her bare legs. Shea was right, she knows it, and Jackie huffs as she scrubs a hand over her tired face. This is the best work of her life. Jan’s knowing, teasing gaze is laid out in front of her, over and over again, and Jackie’s never wanted to be a detective before but she desperately feels like she’s trying to solve _something_. There’s an elusive quality to Jan she can’t quite grasp, like a final hurdle she’s yet to meet. She feels it hanging in the air between them, between her and every woman she’s met at Cannon Lane - like they are waiting, like she is being tested. Like they want her to ask something, to dare to do something.

Jackie picks up the photograph directly in front of her. Jan is kneeling in the flower beds, a trowel in one hand and a bluebell in the other. “She’s early,” Jan had said to Jackie, dropping abruptly to her knees and taking the flower’s stem in careful, practiced fingers. “Bluebells bloom in the Springtime, but even so, she is quite early. I suppose she was done with waiting.” Jackie couldn’t stop herself, raising her camera to snap a photograph, her heart clenching at the gentle clutch of Jan’s beautiful, ladylike fingers along the stem of the flower. She ached to be touched like that, for Jan to touch her like that.

“I’m done with waiting,” she murmurs, slipping her fingertip along the edge of the print. Mabel stirs, butting her head against Jackie’s knee as she stretches and almost knocks half the photographs off the bed. The action stirs her from her reverie. Casting a glance at the clock on her nightstand, she realises she has lost track of time. “I should get ready, hmm?” she says to Mabel, scratching her beneath her chin. The cat starts to purr. In the other hand she takes the photograph Shea had been captivated with, the same one Jackie had caught herself turning over and over ever since she developed it. From the print in her hand Jan stares up at her, warm and challenging, from their hazy afternoon in the garden. It had been unseasonably warm for early Spring, the heat of the day and Jan’s gaze still weighing heavily on her now. In this shot she looks like her mother, Jackie realises, feeling haunted by the memory of whatever photographs of Alexis that Jackie has been able to get her hands on. Jan is fair where her mother was dark, but there’s something shared between mother and daughter in the eyes. Jackie lingers, biting down hard on her lower lip. She feels like she’s perpetually solving a puzzle, almost getting to what she thinks is the end, only to receive another ten pieces each time.

A million miles away, next to her on the mattress, Mabel yowls. It’s her breakfast time.

“Alright,” Jackie mumbles, scooping the prints up and shuffling back into their envelope. “Alright, let’s do this.”

-

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to wear,” Jackie had said to Jan, a couple of days earlier. Jan had smiled, leaning over to brush her fingers against Jackie’s wrist as if she was about to share a secret.

“It’s only a party, Jackie. Wear white, but be prepared to get a little grubby.”

Jackie doesn’t own much white, but she manages to make do with a pair of wide legged trousers pulled from the back of her wardrobe, and a white blouse of soft silk she’s only ever worn a handful of times before. Her mother has given it to her, and Jackie feels a wave of guilt as she gently thumbs the covered buttons, knowing how much it must have cost her. It’s hard, to think of home, and no matter how many years Jackie spends away from it, she can’t seem to reach a point where it gets any easier. Better not to dwell on it.

With her camera bag clasped between nervous hands, Jackie leaves out extra food for Mabel with the presumption that she will be home late, and heads for the underground station. It’s a clear morning, and the sun is high overhead by the time she exits at Hampstead. Apprehension churns in the pit of her stomach. She has done her best to extract information from her friends - can she call them her friends, now? Is that what they are? - about what she should expect from Ostara, but they mostly seem to delight in her ignorance. “Darling,” Brianna had said to her one evening, passing her a small, crystal glass of brandy with her dainty, doll-like hands, “why must you know _now_? You will be there soon enough, just enjoy it as it happens. It’s a magical time of year, and patience is a virtue.” She had observed Jackie with her usual coolly amused gaze. It didn’t embarrass Jackie as much as it once did, but still set her slightly on edge. More than the rest of the women, Brianna felt chronically difficult to pin down. She was never rude, always pleasant and chatty and welcoming, but Jackie struggled to feel completely relaxed in her company. There was something distinctly catlike about her, a sliver of dubious intent where she felt Brianna could perhaps just decide one day to verbally dismember her, piece by piece, and there was nothing Jackie could do about it. It made her palms sweat if she started to think about it too much. In another life, Jackie thinks she could have maybe found that desirable. As it was, her world revolved around January Mantione.

The front gate at Cannon Lane is wide open when she reaches it, and as Jackie winds her way through the garden and up the stairs, she hears the distinct sound of laugher, chatter, and the dizzying, far off drone of a gramophone. “Here we go,” she murmurs to herself, eyeing the rosemary by the door and brushing it with her fingertips as she passes. For luck, or something.

It wasn’t that she was used to the house being _empty_ , per se. There was always life at Cannon Lane, always Katya and Monet mixing paints in conservatory, Sasha organising the dusty bookshelves in the parlour, Brianna and Jan laughing as they pickled jars upon jars of some kind of mysterious vegetable pulled from the garden with their dirt streaked hands. The house always felt alive in a way that Jackie had never experienced with a building before, a kind of lifeblood peacefully humming at all times, set deep into the bones of the place. But today the house was heaving with life. The majority of it seemed concentrated to the back garden, where, as Jackie walks hesitantly down the corridor, a few women she didn’t know seemed to be heading.

“Hello!” One of them says to her, brushing past and tipping a cream boater in her direction. Jackie smiles, flustered, and nods in greeting. She lingers by the stairwell, fingers twisting anxiously at the strap of her camera bag while feeling incredibly pedestrian and uncultured. Parties have never been her strong suit; usually when she had to attend them she had Shea to fall back on. People seemed to fall over themselves to accomodate Shea, who still never let her comforting hand slip from the small of Jackie’s back whenever she was dragged along to one of her events. But Shea wasn’t here, and Jackie was alone.

“Jacqueline!” Her head whipped around to the sound of Katya clattering down the stairs, inexplicably dressed in white jodhpurs. Her nimble artists fingers worked at the button on her vest. “You made it!”

“Katya, thank god,” Jackie says gratefully, leaning into the hug offered by the other woman. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t ever see somebody I knew.” Katya shoots her a puzzled look.

“What are you talking about? Have you been outside? We are all there, I only came indoors to change.”

“Into equestrian gear?” Jackie asks teasingly, as Katya links their arms together and begins to lead her out the back.

“You never know,” Katya grins, winking, “might be planning on doing some riding later.” Katya’s ebullience is contagious, and Jackie lets her head fall back, laughing along with her. They step through the back door, and Jackie stops suddenly with the desire to take it all in. The garden is transformed - far from the sleepy, tranquil place she is familiar with, where relaxation and utility is prioritised, a horde of garden furniture has appeared. Tables are littered with food and bowls of drink, vases of crocuses and snowdrops, and unlit candles which Jackie presumes will come into play later on as the light fades. Everywhere she looks are women - there’s a canvas spread out under the willow tree where several of them are crouched, shouts comes from a group playing croquet at the far end of the garden, there are women picking through the flowerbeds, skirts in one hand and seeds in the other.

“Katya…” Jackie says, trailing off as her eyes scan the garden, trying to process everything she sees. Katya laughs, squeezing her forearm and leaning close to press a kiss to her temple. Up this close, she smells of cardamom and roses.

“Happy Ostara, Jacqueline. You never forget your first one. Oh, but look, here comes someone to see you!” Sasha is winding her way towards them in a high necked white gown, the sun shining off her freshly shaved head.

“Happy Ostara,” Jackie says, her words thick through her smile as she accepts a glass of whatever Sasha passes to her and Katya.

“A happy Ostara to you too, little dove,” Sasha laughs, motioning to her glass. “Drink up, it’s an Ostara speciality.” Jackie takes a sip, and is met with the heavy taste of honey to sweeten the dry white wine. There’s citrus too, and something else she isn’t sure of, but it’s delicious.

“This tastes dangerous,” she says, grinning, and both Katya and Sasha laugh.

“Don’t be afraid, you’re in good company here. I promise. Drink as much as you will.” Sasha reaches over to touch the back of her hand to Jackie’s cheek, and Jackie immediately feels calmer. She is grateful that the first guests she’s interacted with have been the two sisters, who somehow always manage to put her at ease. 

“You must try all of the foods,” Katya is saying, “especially Monet’s eggs, you _must_ try her eggs - we have devilled, and I think, is that egg salad? Was she making egg salad earlier, Sasha?” She cranes her head, hopping down from the step with a thud.

“The riding boots really complete the outfit,” Sasha says drily, her voice warm with laughter, and Katya raises her eyebrows, kicking one foot back dramatically.

“I think it’s practical! Last year it rained and we all got muddy during the planting! At least I’ll be prepared.”

Jackie gestures towards the main cluster of flowerbeds, where several women still seem to be busy with seeds. “Is that what’s happening there? A special kind of planting?”

Sasha smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “It’s more or less just regular planting of seeds, yes. But it is significant that we do it today, with all of us together, as a collective.”

Jackie nods slowly. “Because Ostara is about… rebirth?”

“Amongst other things, yes,” Sasha reaches across and brushes the edge of Jackie’s jaw again, a gesture that feels like it comes from an older sister she has never had. The longer she spends with these women, the more she understands the odd little family unit they have created between them, a delicate but resilient web of patience and generosity and unconditional love. And the longer she stays, the more Jackie yearns to be just a small part of whatever it is that binds them all to one another. “There’s enough time for that later, though. Now, I know someone is looking for you.”

“Who?” Jackie asks, her heart suddenly in her throat, and Katya lets out a low, throaty chuckle.

“Who do you think?” Jackie looks behind both sisters, her gaze drawn to the willow tree. There stands Jan, a paintbrush in hand, next to the canvas. But she isn’t looking at the artwork. Jan is staring straight across the garden back at her. When Jan realises she is being watched, her lips bow softly into a broad smile, and she gives a little wave with her paintbrush. Jackie returns her smile, allowing herself a brief, nervous wave.

Sasha leans close to Jackie, a comforting hand placed on her shoulder. “Goddess speed, little dove,” she whispers, and gives her a gentle push. As Jackie winds her way through the party, she spots Monet sprawled in a deck chair in a beautifully beaded off-white dress, picking out a tune on a mandolin. Brianna perches on the arm of the chair, her petite frame dwarfed by a pair of chic silken beach pyjamas. There’s a red-headed woman with them Jackie doesn’t recognise, her sharp eyes tracking Jackie’s movements across the garden. The weight of her gaze prickles uncomfortably at the back of Jackie’s neck, and her palms start to itch as she finishes the last of her honeyed wine, dropping the empty glass on a bench and dragging her focus back to Jan. It’s easier than anything to allow herself complete distraction by the woman, adorned in a sleeveless frock which gathers at the waist and falls in a slouchy vee across her sternum. For the first time, Jackie notices the wreath of leaves and flowers balanced atop her head. Clustered at the front of the crown are a row of bluebells. _She looks like something out of an Alphonse Mucha print_ , Jackie thinks achingly, some kind of art nouveau goddess.

“Happy Ostara,” Jackie says, smiling, when she gets within speaking distance. Jan looks delighted, setting down her paintbrush in a jar by her feet and stepping forward to slip both of her hands into Jackie’s. They are a couple of degrees warmer than Jackie’s, whose body always seems to run cold, and she leans close enough that Jackie can feel the soft putter of her breath against her jaw. _Let me die_ , she thinks, closing her eyes and feeling the garden slip away. Her entire world narrows to the heated tangle of Jan’s fingers and the perfume of bluebells as Jan’s lips draw close enough to kiss.

“Happy Ostara, Jackie,” Jan says, so quietly, her voice millimetres from Jackie’s ear, and then she’s kissing both of Jackie’s cheeks. It’s a simple gesture, nothing more than a brush of lips upon skin, but all the air is punched out of Jackie’s body in one fell swoop. Jan’s hair hangs loose around her shoulders and brushes the inside crease of Jackie’s elbow, causing Jackie to shiver even in the warmth of early Spring. She wishes she could open her eyes, but she doesn’t trust herself to not do something utterly stupid. Like kiss her properly. Kissing her would be bad, very bad, at least in such a public place as this. So Jackie holds her breath and waits, counting to three in her head until Jan is pulling away. Only then does it feel safe for Jackie to blink her eyes open. Jan is still close, their hands joined, but luckily no longer within distance of Jackie’s yearning mouth.

“Shall we have a drink?” Jackie asks, desperate for another glass of wine to soothe her nerves. Jan beams.

“Yes! Yes, of course, come,” and drops one of her hands, using the other to escort her over to a table scattered with bottles and plates and an assortment of glasses. “We only make this wine for Ostara, so I always try to enjoy it as much as possible. Maybe a little too much,” she admits, rolling her eyes and laughing as she pours a cup for herself, and one for Jackie. “Here, take one.”

Their hands are still joined. Jackie takes the offered glass, and feeling bold, swipes her thumb over the back of Jan’s hand in a gentle caress. Jan makes a soft, enquiring sound, and squeezes her hand in return, stepping closer. Her heart thundering in her chest, Jackie holds up her glass in a toast.

“To rebirth, and to— to new beginnings,” she says hoarsely, and something in Jan’s keen gaze deepens, locks onto hers with a seriousness Jackie has only caught glimpses of before. She holds onto her hand tighter.

“To new beginnings,” Jan echoes, with a pleased tilt to her smile, and throws her head back, downing the wine in one gulp. Jackie gets stuck momentarily on the slow bob of her throat as she swallows, before she follows suit and empties her own glass. The wine is as sweet as her first glass was, and goes down far too easily. When she’s done, Jan is laughing, calling over to someone Jackie doesn’t know, but leaning forward to rest her head against Jackie’s shoulder, their hands still entwined. Jackie sets her glass down, then gently extracts Jan’s from her loose grasp and places that on the table too. Glancing back up, she feels a sudden wave of unease, and when she turns her head she realises that the red-haired woman from earlier is watching her again, her shrewd gaze sharp and knowing as it darts between her and Jan.

“Who is that?” Jackie murmurs, but Jan is distracted and doesn’t hear, tracing a pattern along the seam of Jackie’s shoulder with her thumb while speaking animatedly to another woman across the table. Jackie thinks she might be a little drunk already, and it’s hopelessly endearing. Soon, Brianna winds her way over to greet them, an assessing smile blooming across her refined mouth as she clearly notes their tangled hands and says nothing of it. Monet is calling to them, and Jan coaxes Jackie over towards where Monet is holding court, dropping the names of half a dozen songs Jackie has never heard of as requests for Monet to play. “We’ll have to do some serious things later,” Jan tells her as if in confidence, winding her arms around Jackie’s neck. Jackie’s hand automatically land one on her waist, one cradling the small of her back, to steady the other woman. “I mean, I have to do some serious things. But will you have a little dance with me first?”

Jan’s breath is rich with honey wine, the sun shines high overhead, and the sounds of Monet’s intricate strumming are punctuated with a far-off delighted cackle that sounds like Katya. It’s all too easy to let her troubling thoughts of the red-headed woman melt away. “Of course I will,” Jackie says, feeling like the luckiest woman on earth. _If only Shea could see me now_ , she thinks briefly, and is brought back by the pleased noise Jan makes as she presses herself close enough so the demure buttons of Jackie’s shirt brush Jan’s bare collarbone. “It is Ostara, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Jackie's a dyke, hey? 
> 
> This was a little shorter than usual, but because of pacing etc it made more sense to split the Ostara chapter here instead of trying to cram it all into one. So there's Ostara part two on the way! 
> 
> Also: if you've never heard of the 1920s beach pyjamas that I have put Brianna in, you gotta google them right now. They are resplendent and I desperately wish they would make a comeback because I would absolutely wear them 24/7. 
> 
> Finally, thank you all for such a beautiful welcome back after my little unplanned hiatus. This is by far the most self indulgent thing I have ever written, and it means the world that so many of you seem to enjoy it. I spend a lot of time with these ladies knocking about in my head, so I love hearing what you all think about it.


End file.
